Part 4 (1/2)
The mortal race is much too weak Not to turn giddy on unaccustomed heights.
He was not ign.o.ble, neither a traitor, But for a servant too great, and as a companion Of the great Thunderer only a man. So was His fault also that of a man, its penalty Severe, and poets sing--Presumption And faithlessness cast him down from the throne of Jove, Into the anguish of ancient Tartarus; Ah, and all his race bore their hate.
THOAS.
Bore it the blame of the ancestor, or its own?
IPHIGENIA.
Truly the vehement breast and powerful life of the t.i.tan Were the a.s.sured inheritance of son and grandchild; But the G.o.ds bound their brows with a brazen band, Moderation, counsel, wisdom, and patience Were hid from their wild, gloomy glance, Each desire grew to fury, And limitless ranged their pa.s.sionate thoughts.
Iphigenia refuses with gentle firmness to give to grat.i.tude what was not due. Thoas leaves her in anger, and, to make her feel it, orders that the old, barbarous custom be renewed, and two strangers just arrived be immolated at Diana's altar.
Iphigenia, though distressed, is not shaken by this piece of tyranny.
She trusts her heavenly protectress will find some way for her to save these unfortunates without violating her truth.
The strangers are Orestes and Pylades, sent thither by the oracle of Apollo, who bade them go to Tauris and bring back ”The Sister;” thus shall the heaven-ordained parricide of Orestes be expiated, and the Furies cease to pursue him.
The Sister they interpret to be Dian, Apollo's sister; but Iphigenia, sister to Orestes, is really meant.
The next act contains scenes of most delicate workmans.h.i.+p, first between the light-hearted Pylades, full of worldly resource and ready tenderness, and the suffering Orestes, of far n.o.bler, indeed heroic nature, but less fit for the day and more for the ages. In the first scene the characters of both are brought out with great skill, and the nature of the bond between ”the b.u.t.terfly and the dark flower,”
distinctly shown in few words.
The next scene is between Iphigenia and Pylades. Pylades, though he truly answers the questions of the priestess about the fate of Troy and the house of Agamemnon, does not hesitate to conceal from her who Orestes really is, and manufactures a tissue of useless falsehoods with the same readiness that the wise Ulysses showed in exercising his ingenuity on similar occasions.
It is said, I know not how truly, that the modern Greeks are Ulyssean in this respect, never telling straightforward truth, when deceit will answer the purpose; and if they tell any truth, practising the economy of the King of Ithaca, in always reserving a part for their own use. The character which this denotes is admirably hit off with few strokes in Pylades, the fair side of whom Iphigenia thus paints in a later scene.
Bless, ye G.o.ds, our Pylades, And whatever he may undertake; He is the arm of the youth in battle, The light-giving eye of the aged man in the council.
For his soul is still; it preserves The holy possession of Repose unexhausted, And from its depths still reaches Help and advice to those tossed to and fro.
Iphigenia leaves him in sudden agitation, when informed of the death of Agamemnon. Returning, she finds in his place Orestes, whom she had not before seen, and draws from him by her artless questions the sequel to this terrible drama wrought by his hand. After he has concluded his narrative, in the deep tones of cold anguish, she cries,--
Immortals, you who through your bright days Live in bliss, throned on clouds ever renewed, Only for this have you all these years Kept me separate from men, and so near yourselves, Given me the child-like employment to cherish the fires on your altars, That my soul might, in like pious clearness, Be ever aspiring towards your abodes, That only later and deeper I might feel The anguish and horror that have darkened my house.
O Stranger, Speak to me of the unhappy one, tell me of Orestes.
ORESTES.
O, might I speak of his death!
Vehement flew up from the reeking blood His Mother's Soul!
And called to the ancient daughters of Night, Let not the parricide escape; Pursue that man of crime; he is yours!
They obey, their hollow eyes Darting about with vulture eagerness; They stir themselves in their black dens, From corners their companions Doubt and Remorse steal out to join them.
Before them roll the mists of Acheron; In its cloudy volumes rolls The eternal contemplation of the irrevocable Permitted now in their love of ruin they tread The beautiful fields of a G.o.d-planted earth, From which they had long been banished by an early curse, Their swift feet follow the fugitive, They pause never except to gather more power to dismay.
IPHIGENIA.
Unhappy man, thou art in like manner tortured, And feelest truly what he, the poor fugitive, suffers!
ORESTES.
What sayest thou? what meanest by ”like manner”?